And she found herself sinking back down onto the patio, listening for the front door to close behind him.
When it did, she tried to convince herself that the balloon inside her didn’t pop in time to that soft click.
But all that convincing didn’t make one bit of difference; regret flooded through her, sinking heavy through her limbs as the sun descended and she finally managed to push herself up from the patio, heading into the house and seeing . . . the pile of her books stacked neatly on her counter.
Junk food.
Books.
And . . . a bottle sitting on top of a note.
Thought of you when I saw this.
Hope you get to enjoy a bath tonight.
-E
Bubble bath.
She popped the top, inhaled.
Strawberries.
The same scent as the lotion she slathered on every morning because she absolutely loved the way it smelled.
And the same scent Ethan had noticed enough to buy the corresponding bubble bath.
Dani’s eyes slid closed.
She wasn’t disappointed. She wasn’t. She wasn’t.
Anyway, even if she was, she understood herself well enough to know she’d get over it.
Chapter Eight
Ethan
The hit came out of nowhere, smashing him into the boards hard enough that all of the air squeezed out of his lungs, his shoulder colliding hard with the glass.
Everything went out of focus for a heartbeat, but then he was shoving the opposing player back, kicking the puck forward and out of his feet, getting it back on the blade of his stick and forcefully carrying it out of the zone.
They were on the penalty kill, down a goal late in the third, and their players were tired.
He needed to get the puck over that blue line, get it deep enough into the other zone that they could change for the second penalty kill unit—the next group of his teammates, who would try to kill off the other team’s one-player advantage.
But they weren’t going to make it easy on him as he bodily shoved himself forward.
A hard swipe of the fucker’s—aka a player from the other team’s—stick against his hands, sent a stinging pain crawling up his arms. He’d had much worse, though, so he didn’t falter, successfully creeping up the final six inches and getting the puck out of the zone. Now, the other team had to all clear out, and they had a little breathing room. Enough at least for him to be able to glance up, to see Max streaking forward, looking not the least bit tired, even though he’d just worked his ass off in front of Brit’s net.
Ethan banked the puck off the boards, tapping it around the player trying to intercept, unconsciously holding his breath until it was on Max’s stick and his teammate was skating down the ice.
Then, even though his lungs were burning, he sprinted to the bench, allowing Coop to jump over the boards and join the rush. It was two-on-two, but then Blue joined in, exiting the box as the penalty ran out, and the Ducks made a bad change, and in a second, the Gold had numbers with their opponents scrambling to get back into their end of the ice.
A pass skipped over Blue’s stick was scooped up by Coop, who made a move that was all kinds of illegal (in a strictly that-was-fucking-amazing and not that it-was-against-the-rules-of-the-game way). He crashed the net, faked a shot, and passed it back door to Blue, who didn’t miss a beat as he slammed it home.
The crowd erupted, the walls of the Gold Mine seeming to vibrate with the roars of pride and happiness (and occasional boos from the few Ducks fans in the stands), and for a moment, Ethan wasn’t present in the game.
He was wondering if Dani was able to hear the cheering deep in the bowels of the arena, where her office was located, if she’d seen the play, seen him working hard.
Pathetic.
Certainly.
But maybe if he couldn’t win her over by hijacking her afternoon of reading and librarying, then maybe he could impress her with hockey skills.
She liked the sport.
Right?
He supposed she had to, given how much of it she watched.
Which brought him back to hoping she’d seen it, even though he knew that she was probably busily reviewing angles in case the goal was challenged, labeling different portions of the video feed for review later. He also knew that sometimes she ran behind the actual game play, using the commercial breaks to tag all the various things the coaches wanted earmarked so they could be pulled and stitched together after the game or in between periods.
Still, his ego wanting to be boosted aside, Ethan knew Dani was working her ass off right at the moment, so he pushed all thoughts of stroking (sweet Christ, why was he always thinking about stroking with that woman?) aside and glanced down at the screen placed beneath plexiglass below the bench, the goal replaying over and over again from various angles.
He watched Coop’s move again—fuck that was sick—and then was surprised, his eyes drawn from the screen when Bernard, their head coach, tapped him on the shoulder with the rolled-up sheaf of papers he always carried when coaching. Considering he’d never seen Bernard look at them, Ethan thought it was the older man’s version of a fidget spinner. Not that he’d ever voice that thought aloud. Players didn’t rock the boat with their head coaches.
Or at least not players who wanted to actually get a decent amount of ice time.
He met his coach’s gaze, forced away thoughts of fidget spinners.
Bernard nodded approvingly. “That was you.” Another tap, and then he was back focusing on the rest of the team, talking with the ref, saying something into Calle’s—their assistant coach, who had a killer mind for offense (and also Coop’s wife)—ear before focusing back on the ice.
Which was what Ethan should be doing.
Except, now he wasn’t just wondering if Dani had noticed his role in the play, but whether she’d caught Bernard giving him props—something that was rare with their typically quiet coach
